Exactly
by Pessomantic
Summary: M and S go on a case. This was written a looong time ago. It's more characterization than a case-fic.


Disclaimer: The show and the characters aren't mine...etc.  
  
Exactly  
  
She and Mulder had investigated many cases that seemed like an article from a sci-fi magazine. Many she had objected to in their start. Her brain- so accustomed and attached to reason as it was- could not fathom the bizarre and flat-out ridiculous explanations he had tried to feed her. Even the pleading look in his whiskey eyes could not pry her from her mindset, her science. Though his charms were always more successful when they were purposefully exaggerated, her professionalism remained with her, and not once had she compromised her dignity in light of the temptation entreating her. And this is where it led. Slaving away for years on the X-Files, drinking in the pain and the criticism they brought like an age-old masochist, and she found herself in a state of bliss. Absolute unfounded (supposedly) bliss.  
  
Her heels gently scraping the floor at the doorway, she observed Mulder at this desk, throwing shelled sunflower seeds up in the air and then attempting to catch them in his mouth, rarely succeeding. With a maternal grin of amusement barely sprouting on her face, she inwardly chuckled at him. Through the years she had seldom succumbed to his charms, and this was no different. Whereas any other woman would find his pathetic attempts remarkably sexy, Scully acted true to her mood and her name. Clearing her throat and watching with a smirk her fellow professional sheepishly try to cover up his game, and his failure at it, she took a few steps forward with a surprisingly nonchalant air. "We've received a commendation, Mulder. Not a lawsuit, not a threat, not a warning. Imagine that-," a soft, barely-detectable laugh was welded together with these words,"We have pleased the Bureau for once." With obvious disdain towards her words, he sputtered out, "So now I suppose you'll always insist on choosing our cases." She shrugged in response. "It isn't a real X-File, Scully. Not really." His statement was met by the ever-armed eyebrow. "With this case we have gained nothing towards the answers we both seek. It holds no value to us in the future." "But it holds value for the Wilkenses, doesn't it? Mulder, their son died! The good that came about here went directly to the family, not through some secret government project, not-" sighing, exasperated now, "not through a UFO sighting, not through another one of your beloved conspiracies-to the people involved! Can't you understand the effect that our results had on them?" Her mood was slipping, as a result of his stupidity, no less, into the sardonic attitude that came with her surroundings- a shadowed hellhole.  
  
From that point, events somehow fused together into one string of the partners' "regularities" that earned no personal reaction from Dana Scully. With a look of annoyance in his eyes, the incorrigible middle-aged twelve- year old, sitting at his desk, cluttered with action figures of aliens and candy wrappers mixed in with notes and files, had handed her a chocolate smeared one to skim through. "There has been a more recent case of this," Scully glared up at him as if to say 'What do you take me for?' With a shrug as his one response, he continued, "In 1923 these happenings were limited to a little town in Ohio. A week ago the same thing happened in that same place. The marks on the bodies were identical-looked like something straight out of Dracula, only there were a few stab wounds, signifying that there was a struggle. The victim was Dana Elizabeth Broan, 37. I got tickets for a four o'clock flight. You can do the autopsy as soon as we get there." With a nod of approval, and an unseen shiver at the name similarity, Scully felt with a pang of regret as well as with a widespread warmth of familiarity that things were going back to the way they were. With this thought she had a sudden urge to go see a Barbra Streisand film.  
  
The flight would have been torture to anyone less weathered, less hardened towards sentiments than the two agents. Both wallowing in their aggravation at the other, it had gone by in a sinister silence broken only by the occasional sarcastic remark. Disembarking was a joy, even though they arrived close to midnight, as the plane had set off what seemed like years after the scheduled time. Anger built up in her at this unplanned turn of events. With nowhere to go but the nearest motel, the atmosphere in the rental car as they drove was uninviting, with some local station blaring out music succeeding in only the slightest at covering the awkwardness and impatience both felt. The mellowness of the music had an effect though, gently touching home with its melancholy lyrics and sounds.  
  
Shades of night have fallen, and I'm lonely  
Standing on a corner, feeling blue.  
Sweethearts out for fun,  
They pass me, one by one.  
Guess I'll wind up like I always do.  
  
With only-  
Me and my shadow,  
Strolling down the avenue.  
Me and my shadow,  
Not a soul to tell our travels.  
  
How many times had he found himself in exactly that way? But his quest, his search for the truth demanded its price- his life. The one he could have had. He stole a look at his partner, whose former orneriness and irritability had faded away like his own. Unaware of his scrutiny, her face betrayed a naked longing, a yearning for something. What it was, he couldn't say. Over the years his partner had become his confidante, but she revealed herself to him only when there was no alternative. She knew him so well, and she was still a mystery to him- a beautiful, stubborn enigma. He recognized his own longing and, sensing the danger, turned his attention back to the questionable book in his hands just as her eyes, reluctantly leaving the road, started over his face in attempt to read his features and now-masked countenance.  
  
Not a soul to tell our travels.  
  
And when it's one o'clock,  
We climb the stairs.  
We never knock,  
'Cause nobody's there.  
Just me and my shadow-  
All alone-----  
  
Fed up with the brutal honesty of the song, Scully had rather clumsily turned the knob, switching to a political talk station. She knew Mulder should get a kick out of it. But he didn't. He seemed somehow sedated, and no longer the least bit furious. Turning her thoughts to material matters, she cursed the station for playing the song. She cursed the DJ for somehow knowing her situation. She cursed herself for making the connection. She had her mother, after all. She wasn't alone. She had Mulder. No, she didn't. Mulder was her partner, her best friend, but none of those roles could rid her of her dreary solitude.  
  
Their rooms were side by side, close but separated by a barrier. The proximity sent reassurances singing through Mulder, while the barrier pained them both. Throwing off her covers in one rash movement, Scully leapt from the bed, determined to gain control of her irrational sentiments. Showered and dressed, she slammed the car door shut and set out on I-75, just barely breaking the speed limit. Not noticing how the time passed, she found herself stalking through tiled hallways at two in the morning. She had demanded from the young assistant at the front desk to see the body and perform the autopsy right away. Unsure of what he should do, he made about twenty phone calls to his bosses, all irritated at being woken up at an unearthly hour, judging by the boy's cringes and loud voices that even Scully could hear from where she was. When he finally gave her the go-ahead, she had realized the insanity of what she was doing. In the back of her mind, however, burned the necessity of the act. "Slice and dice," Mulder had once characterized it. She would rather dissect and analyze a week-old rotting corpse than her own emotions. Which were none, she reminded herself.  
  
Still half dressed in only a pair of boxers and a white t-shirt, Mulder searched through the window the motel parking for their rented olive Ford Taurus. Confused when he couldn't find it, he turned but was brought back by the sound of an engine dying. Flipping open the blinds once again, he saw Scully, disheveled and slouching, exit the car and shut the door passively. She stood there for a moment, then turned and proceeded with a downcast manner towards her room. Anxious for an explanation, her partner unlocked the door and stood, looking down in her direction. Heaving a dejected sigh and rotating her exhausted body, she looked up at Fox Mulder, who was triumphantly waiting for the culprit's excuse.  
Looking up, she saw the glint of superiority and conquest in his hazel eyes. A moment later, it vanished. The leaden feel of all her limbs prevented her from thinking about it. The night had been passed away picking and cutting, trying to find out what it was that killed Dana Broan. The two alleged fang marks had all the characteristics the supposition suggested, but her science prevented her from believing the argument. After composing her evaluation and printing it out on one of the facility's computers, she had headed back. It took her half an hour and three wrong turns to arrive at her destination, where she was greeted by Fox Mulder, now advancing towards her with nothing but concern for her well-being. Pulling herself together and letting her dull gaze dig into his, she swiftly turned the key in its lock and pulled open the door, all the while providing Mulder with an unsatisfactory account-one that she judged was good enough for him. "I did the autopsy." She took her first step in, then twisting her head to gaze at him once more, "Give me fifteen minutes." With this Fox Mulder was a few scant inches away from the face of a white, wooden door. Noticing that it needed a new coat of paint, along with the rest of the place, he turned and went back from whence he came.  
  
After a week of interviewing family and possible suspects- that is to say vampires, Dana Scully found herself searching an art studio for Myer Perkins, the man they now had evidence had caused the death of Dana E. Broan. He had an interesting hobby, she noticed. One that she had fostered in her earlier days, back when she was in high school. Fingering some tools with her right hand, she kept her left steady with her gun in its grip. It appeared that he had left. In rather a hurry, she concluded, from the state of the place. Two of the lights were still on, and there were knives and scissors laying around in dangerous positions. Dana knew better than to judge. Making her way through the apartment, calling Mr. Perkins's name, she heard her partner's rushed footsteps outside in the hallway. "Mulder! In here!," she repeated, allowing him to follow her voice to the studio.  
She was frozen in her place when the door was thrown open and there, where she thought Fox Mulder would be, was Perkins, with a group of others with him. Those others she recognized as Dana Broan's family. Each held some kind of weapon. Though they were all domestic items, they outnumbered her nine-to-one, and even with her training, her hopes of physically defeating them were extremely slim. With a gust of man-made wind, one of them had sprinted to her side and gotten hold of her gun. With good instinct, she kneed him, but was overpowered by the others, now joining the young man she recognized as Joe Broan. Satisfied when they had taken control of her gun, they backed away, leaving Dana Scully slouched against a white brick wall, bleeding steathily from several wounds.  
Searching frantically with her uninjured hand for a weapon of any sort as they started advancing towards her again, this time for the kill, she ran into an exact-o knife. Failing to find anything better, she brought it protectively out in front of her chest. With her other hand, she was able to get a small cylinder of refill blades. These gave her confidence. She called out to her partner, standing up, and not taking her eyes from the advancing group. With a thrust, she had sent the exact-o into the chest of one of the vampires. It seemed to replace the traditional stake without any complications. With a grunt and a groan the woman her knife caught fell to the ground, dead. The others still on their mission, she quickly grabbed the knife from the body's chest and prepared to strike a second time when she saw that the blade was missing. Backing up a few wide steps, she called to them, "Stand back! I've got refills! " With this, she attacked. A blade was speedily slipped into its casing, and hurled multiple times. After each throw, it was quickly retrieved for the next. Looking around her in obvious shock, she let herself fall into the heap of bodies, unable to remain conscious. When Mulder ran in to find her, late as ever, Dana Katherine Scully was smeared with fresh blood and held a death grip on her exact-o.  
  
Back at the motel, Mulder watched as Scully came out of the bathroom, wrapping the last bandage around the circumference of her arm. She was in an apparent hurry, and started flipping through her luggage, trying to find something to replace her terry-cloth bathrobe. Drowsy with sleep deprivation, Mulder tactfully drawled, waving a copy of Blair Witch in the air" Aw, that's okay, Dana. You don't have to dress up to watch a movie with me." Scully pulled out a pair of pantyhose and a dark green, knee length dress, silky with a semi-deep cut. "On the other hand, if you want to, I won't deny you the pleasure," he corrected himself, imagining his partner in the elegant frock. Heading into the bathroom once more, she called, "I have a date. And the name's Scully." Emerging ten minutes later, she prepared to leave. Pulling on her three-inch heeled shoes and grabbing a wallet-looking purse off the bed, she squatted down in front of Mulder, lightly patting his head. "Now you be a good boy, Fox. And don't stay up past ten-thirty."  
  
Snarling at the thought of her with someone else, he grumbled to himself, "And the name's Mulder." Two hours later, he had fallen asleep on Scully's bed and was curled up when she walked in. The television screen was showing blue and she clicked it off, regretting it the moment the colored light stopped playing on Mulder's face. Knowing that she would have to dissect her feelings about it in the morning, and most likely his as well, she toed off her shoes and wrapped her arms around him, snuggling close for added warmth. Bliss.  
  
His eyes snapped open at the feel of another presence in the room. Catching a brief glimpse of his drained yet exquisite partner, he quickly resumed his placid expression of slumber, allowing only the beaming blue to reveal his fraud countenance. With that one peek at her, he held the image in his mind. Ethereal. Breathtaking. She had on the same emerald-green dress, her formerly flawless makeup now appeared more natural, subtly complimenting her features. A few strands of that scarlet hair had escaped into their rebellious positions, brushing across her forehead and cheek. She now moved towards his space on the bed, her expression, he noted with a forbidden glance, compassionate and loving, yet not the maternal one she had given when taking care of him. This expression, this look in her striking blue eyes, the unnerving penetrating caress of that gaze- all suggested true feeling for him. A feeling he wasn't meant to know of, as she did not notice his charade. The presence then curled up beside him, offering her warmth and comfort to his haunted solitude. Relishing the moment, he never gave a moment's consideration to the defensive apologies/explanations he would be fed in the morning, excuses for the present's bliss. 


End file.
